A Conflict of Interest Read online

  “Do you like steak?” Ohlig says.

  “What?”

  “Do you like steak?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’ll meet you at Peter Luger’s tonight at nine.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “If there’s any possibility on earth I’ll be spending tomorrow night in jail, I want to make sure I get one last good meal in me.”

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  “Bring Abby too,” he says, and then hangs up.

  13

  Peter Luger’s is a New York tradition, consistently ranked as the best steakhouse in the city, if not on earth, despite the fact that the decor is little more than old tables paired with barely comfortable chairs, the lighting is too bright, they take only cash or their own credit card and, worst of all, it’s in Brooklyn. Despite this, the place is always jammed, as it is tonight.

  The waiter comes over and hesitates for a moment, catching each of our eyes before handing Ohlig the wine list.

  “I don’t even need to look,” Ohlig says, pushing the list back at him. “Do you have an Amarone?”

  “We have several, sir,” the waiter says.

  “Whichever is the best one, we want it.”

  The waiter quickly returns. He shows the bottle to Ohlig and after Ohlig nods, the waiter pulls the cork out and pours Ohlig a taste.

  The wine is a deep purple, and its legs stick to the side of Ohlig’s glass when he swirls it. After taking a sip, he pronounces it exceptional, and directs the waiter to fill our glasses.

  While the pouring occurs, Ohlig orders dinner for all of us. The steak for three, “Pittsburgh,” which he explains afterwards means charred on the outside but rare on the inside, with sides of hash browns “burnt to a crisp,” and, at Abby’s insistence, asparagus.

  After the waiter leaves, Ohlig leans toward Abby. “Has Alex told you I knew his parents before he was born?”

  “He’s mentioned it,” she says, “but I’d love to hear more.”

  It’s a bit of a Rashomon moment for me. Ohlig’s version sticks to the script I’ve heard before, although he claims it was my father’s challenge that brought them to Central Park, whereas my father tells it the other way around. Ohlig also incorporates my mother’s claim about how she didn’t want to go at all, but was talked into it by a girlfriend who wanted company on the train.

  Then he adds something I’d never heard before.

  “We’d been playing for about a half hour, when on one of the changeovers I say to Alex’s dad, ‘Have you noticed that girl over there?’” For most of this story Ohlig has been holding Abby’s stare, but now he looks at me. “Your dad was a great guy about a lot of things, but about women he was a little bit clueless. So he says to me, ‘What girl?’ And I point to your mother and say, ‘Look, you’re getting killed on the court, you should try to salvage the day somehow. Go talk to her.’”

  Ohlig has my rapt attention. I look over at Abby and see she has the same mesmerized expression, the way Charlotte stares at me when I’m reading her a bedtime story.

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Alex, but your mother was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She looked just like Ali McGraw. Do you young’uns even know who that is?”

  I nod that I do. Despite Abby’s prior comment about me being not much older than her, Ali McGraw must be before Abby’s time because her head moves the other way.

  “She was a movie star,” I say, “in the early seventies. She starred in Love Story.”

  “She wasn’t just a movie star,” Ohlig corrects me. “She epitomized female beauty at the time. She had these amazingly long legs, and dark hair, and she was Steve McQueen’s girlfriend to boot.”

  Abby takes a long sip of her wine. She’s barely placed the glass back on the table before Ohlig’s filling it again.

  “Were you involved with someone then?” she asks Ohlig.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why didn’t you go after Alex’s mother?”

  He pauses, as if he’s deciding between several different answers. “That’s a question I asked myself for many years. And then I met Pamela.” He shrugs and takes a sip of wine. “We all find the person we’re destined to be with in the end.”

  After dinner, the three of us cram into the back of a Lincoln Town car, with Abby taking the middle seat. During the ride over the Brooklyn Bridge back into Manhattan, I’m acutely aware of our legs touching, noticing her other leg is in contact with Ohlig’s. When we reach midtown, Ohlig places his hand on Abby’s knee, but even after several glasses of wine he seems to realize he should remove it quickly.

  The doorman at the Pierre opens the car door and addresses Ohlig by name. For a moment Ohlig doesn’t move. I suspect it’s because he’s contemplating whether he can get away with kissing Abby good-night. Thankfully, he makes the right decision and doesn’t try.

  “Good night, you two,” he says, peering into the window once he’s alighted. “I don’t mind telling you I’m a little concerned about having the only people who stand between me and prison traveling in the same car.” He straightens up and turns to the driver. “Make sure these two get home safely. My freedom depends on it.”

  “Our next stop is going to be 80th and Park,” Abby says to the driver, giving him my address so he can drop me off next.

  “No,” I say. “Go to eighty-eight and Riverside,” which is where Abby lives. “Then you can go through the park to drop me off.”

  “That’s completely out of the way,” Abby says to me, not to the driver. “We’re already on the East Side,” but by this time the car has already turned west.

  “I just want you to know that chivalry is not dead.”

  “Tell that to Bob Ralston,” she says, referencing a mid-level litigation partner. “I had a case with him last year and he made me carry the bags.”

  I laugh, and then we fall into a comfortable silence. In a way, it makes the back of the car more intimate.

  We continue west on Central Park South, and then north up Central Park West. The car turns west at 72nd Street, just in front of the Dakota, and proceeds toward Riverside Drive.

  After we turn east on 88th Street, Abby says, “This one on the right,” when the car approaches a Victorian brownstone with a stoop front. It’s the kind of place where a twenty-something struggling artist would live in a television sitcom. In reality, the monthly rent can only be afforded by hard-charging types in banking or law.

  The car stops in front of her house, which is on my side of the car. Although Abby could easily exit on the street side, I open my door and get out first.

  We’re standing face to face, neither of us moving. I wonder if she thinks I’m going to kiss her, just as I’m wondering if that’s what she’ll do.

  “Good night,” I finally say, when I’m thinking clearly enough to prevent something from happening. “Tonight was fun, probably a lot more than tomorrow will be.”

  “Sleep tight, Alex,” she says, and then flashes that smile of hers before turning around and walking up the stairs to her front door.

  Elizabeth is watching television in the bedroom when I get home. “So, how was it?” she asks as I begin removing my suit.

  “Good. A little weird, actually. The guy is going to be arraigned tomorrow and he acts like it’s somebody else’s freedom that’s in jeopardy.”

  “Maybe he just has supreme confidence in his lawyer.”

  “I truly don’t think that’s it. Although he does seem to like Abby a lot.”

  “I guess that tells me all I need to know about her.”

  “Be nice.”

  “Have I ever met her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe at one of the firm parties. She comes up for partner this year and everyone thinks she’s going to make it, so I’m sure you’ll meet her at the new partner reception in February.”

  Elizabeth is the least jealous person I know. I could say it’s because she trusts me, but it’s something more than
that. It’s almost as if she thinks that merely recognizing the possibility that I could find someone else diminishes her, and she’d rather not even consider the possibility.

  I lean over to kiss Elizabeth, and as I do so I feel a pang of guilt that my passion is fueled largely by my close proximity to Abby this evening (plus the three, or maybe four, glasses of wine), but somehow I’ve also convinced myself that my restraint at Abby’s door entitles me to a reward.

  “You smell like smoke,” she says.

  “I should only smell like wine.”

  “Either way, I’m tired, Alex.”

  And she rolls over away from me.

  14

  The FBI’s offices are housed in what is perhaps the ugliest structure in the entire city. It’s a squat brown stucco building attached to the facility that temporarily houses inmates when they have court appearances. The joke is that the inmates have the more luxurious space.

  Ohlig, Abby, and I arrive half an hour early. The last thing I want is to be late and have Ohlig declared a fugitive from justice.

  The guard in the lobby tells us to go to the sixth floor. Once there, I try the knob of the windowless metal door next to the elevator, but it’s locked. On the adjacent wall is a phone with a handwritten note taped to it telling visitors to dial 0 for assistance. I do as directed and a woman’s voice tells me she’ll be right out. We wait five minutes before a small, African-American woman carrying a large gun in a shoulder holster appears.

  “Good morning,” she says cheerfully. “I’m Special Agent Erica Cole.”

  “Good morning. I’m Alex Miller and this is my colleague, Abigail Sloane, and, of course, this is Michael Ohlig.”

  “Nice to meet all of you,” Agent Cole says, “but I’m only interested in you, Mr. Ohlig. Will you please follow me?”

  “I’d like to accompany my client through booking,” I say, even though I told Ohlig only minutes before that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Afraid not, counselor. Booking is one of those things that’s done alone.”

  “Like death,” Ohlig says.

  Agent Cole smiles at Ohlig’s quip and presses a buzzer that unlocks another steel, windowless door of equal size and depth as the one we entered through. When they’re out of sight, the door slams shut, making a loud clanking sound.

  Twenty minutes later, Ohlig emerges back into the reception area, a different FBI agent now accompanying him. This one is a man, but just as short as Agent Cole, if not shorter.

  As usual, Michael Ohlig looks completely unfazed, so much so it takes me a moment to realize he’s now handcuffed.

  “Mr. Miller,” the FBI agent says to me, “I’m Special Agent Gregory McNiven. You can have a moment to talk to your client, but you’ll have to stay in the reception area. Mr. Ohlig is now officially in federal custody. We’ll take him down to Part One when the judge is ready for us. You can meet him there.”

  “Can you take the handcuffs off, Agent McNiven?” I ask.

  “Sorry, it’s policy. We’ll take them off when we’re in the courtroom.”

  “Seriously?” Ohlig says, despite the fact I told him it was going to go exactly like this.

  “Seriously,” McNiven replies, and you’ve never heard the word spoken like that until you’ve heard it from an FBI agent.

  The Part One judge handles arraignments and other matters that are not yet assigned to another judge, such as discovery disputes from cases pending in other jurisdictions and emergency matters in cases not yet filed. The judges rotate in the position, and although they’re each supposed to take a turn, it always seems to me that a judge on senior status has the job whenever I’m making an application.

  The Part One judge today is Milton Liebman, a barely living symbol to both the Constitutional framers’ wisdom and short-sightedness in bestowing lifetime appointments on federal judges. In his day, Liebman was one of the finest minds in the federal judiciary and the author of several seminal opinions protecting Constitutional liberties. It’s very possible that without the guarantee of lifetime tenure, Liebman wouldn’t have felt free to stake his job on the backs of such unpopular causes. On the other hand, Liebman is now over ninety, nearly completely deaf, and can barely hold a pen to sign an order.

  There isn’t a specifically designated Part One courtroom, so the venue rotates too. Just like Air Force One’s the call sign for whatever plane carries the president, the Part One courtroom is wherever the Part One judge sits.

  As the oldest member of the court, Judge Liebman has the courthouse’s ceremonial courtroom. It’s a massive space, capable of seating over two hundred spectators, darkly paneled, and boasting a double-height ceiling with stained-glass windows. Some of the most celebrated trials in American history have occurred in this room, but now it’s mainly used for citizenship ceremonies, and on the rare occasions when Liebman is on the bench.

  Pavin walks over to our table and hands me a sheaf of papers. “The indictment,” he says casually.

  This is the first time I’ve actually seen Christopher Pavin. Based on the fact that no one had heard of him, I’d assumed he was only a few years out of law school, but he’s clearly older than me, and likely more than forty. He moves with a military bearing, and I seize upon that as the explanation for where he spent the period between college and law school, even though I know that’s probably not the case. Nevertheless, he certainly looks like a former military man—broad shoulders, short-cropped sandy colored hair, and a strong chin. He’s handsome, which is never good for the defense, with clear blue eyes and an easy smile.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, and immediately regret it, like you do when you thank a cop for handing you a speeding ticket.

  The indictment is over twenty single-spaced pages. From my quick perusal, it seems that aside from listing the statutes the government claims Ohlig violated—which are the same seven counts that I would have guessed they’d go for—the indictment doesn’t give any clues as to the evidence they have on him. It’s based solely on Agent McNiven’s “information and belief” that the criminal statutes listed have been violated, which means that, based on the evidence McNiven’s reviewed—which is likely limited to the documents we produced and interviews with low-level OPM employees—he’s concluded Ohlig violated the law.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ohlig enter the courtroom. Agent McNiven is a half step behind him, but because his head barely reaches Ohlig’s shoulder blades, I don’t realize he’s there until they’re both well inside the room.

  I’ve always thought you can tell a lot about a man by the way he wears handcuffs, especially in public. Some appear like snarling animals, as if the moment they’re unshackled they’re going to go right for the throat of their captor. Others look exactly the opposite, like broken men; restrained or not, they couldn’t muster the strength to be dangerous.

  Ohlig acts as if he’s entering a charity benefit with the handcuffs as some exotic yet elegant accessory.

  As promised, McNiven uncuffs Ohlig as soon as he delivers him to counsel table. A second FBI agent—one much younger and much larger—is going to stand behind us during the proceeding. He’s the one charged with making sure Ohlig doesn’t try to escape. McNiven takes his place next to Pavin at the government’s table.

  The judge’s courtroom deputy, a man who looks a little like Eddie Murphy, knocks hard three times on the wood molding of the door leading to the judge’s chambers. “All rise,” he commands.

  I had forgotten just what a little man Judge Liebman is. In his robe, he looks like a kid wearing a Halloween ghost costume, except for the fact that he’s cloaked in black and as wrinkled as a sharpei. It takes him longer than I can ever recall a judge taking to walk the fifteen feet from the doorway to his chair. When he’s finally sitting, he allows everyone else to do the same.

  The deputy bellows: “The United States of America v. Michael Louis Ohlig. Counsel, please state your appearances, starting with the government.”

  “If it pleases the
court, Assistant United States Attorney Christopher G. Pavin for the United States of America. With me at counsel table, your Honor, is Special Agent Gregory McNiven of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Thank you, your Honor.”

  Judge Liebman nods in my direction, signaling it’s my turn to rise. “Good morning. My name is Alexander Miller of the law firm Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White. I am joined here today by my colleague, Abigail Sloane. We represent Michael Ohlig.”

  “Very good counsel. Please, both of you be seated. And welcome, Mr. Ohlig.” Judge Liebman speaks in a squeak that makes him almost impossible to hear. “Waive reading?” is what I think he says next.

  The defendant has the right to have his charges publicly aired, but all defendants waive reading of the indictment as a matter of course. The very idea of sitting through the clerk reading aloud a five-thousand word document is about as unbearable as any torture I can imagine.

  “The defense is willing to waive reading of the indictment,” I say.

  “Mr. Miller, would your client like to enter a plea at this time?” Judge Liebman asks next.

  Ohlig rises and we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. It’s time for him to say the only words I told him he could utter at this proceeding.

  “Your Honor,” Ohlig says in a strong voice. “I am not guilty.”

  Judge Liebman shows no reaction to this, nor would I expect him to. “Would the government like to be heard on the question of bail?”

  “We would, your Honor.” Pavin has a very formal way about him in court, which is not surprising given he’s very formal out of court too. He ends nearly every statement with the phrase your Honor, which is just as annoying as ending every phrase with the name of the person you’re addressing. I agree, Bill. We’ll meet at two, Bill. At that restaurant on Madison, Bill.

  “The government has discussed the issue of bail with defendant’s counsel, your Honor, and we jointly make the following recommendation: that your Honor impose bail in the amount of $15 million, to be satisfied by a bond of at least ten percent cash or its equivalent in real estate. Mr. Ohlig has agreed to surrender his passport and we request your Honor impose, as a condition of bail, that he not be permitted to travel outside his home state of Florida, other than to come to New York to meet with his counsel. Thank you, your Honor.”